Outing #5: Rear View Films by Evonne Davis and Emma Wilcox

Saturday, October 31st: “Rear View Films” is a night planned by New York artists/curators Evonne Davis and Emma Wilcox during which experimental works from the Gallery Aferro (Newark, NJ) film archive are projected from within the Iron Maiden on to its back window. The Iron Maiden will travel to and be stationed at several locations around the city so that passerbys can become spectators of the films. The film series will last throughout the Halloween night. 

Not only did this outing coincide with Halloween, but also with the fact that I had an idea for a Halloween costume, which doesn't happen often, and I tend to go all out when I do. For several weeks prior to the 31st, I assembled the different items needed and psychologically prepared myself for the commitment of changing my hair for the costume. I had seen "Ladies and Gentlemen... The Fabulous Stains!" in August, a 1981 film starring a 15-year-old Diane Lane and 12-year-old Laura Dern that was never distributed due to poor reactions from test audiences. It's popped up in festival circuits over the since then, and was released on DVD last year. Though the film is so-so, I was struck by Diane Lane's character as an angry confused teenager whose mother has just died and goes on tour with her girl rock band who know one song ("Waste of Time"). Annoyed at the contradictions she sees in the adult world, she adopts a fuck-you attitude and fuck-me look, though her motto is "I don't put out." I loved the blind rebellion and the outrageous look. And that a doppelganger teenage girl cult forms around her. Any reason I produced to not bleach my hair further supported why I should. I felt like my role in this week's outing included being a Halloween participant.

Evonne and Emma experienced a few set backs the week beforehand involving their car, so I picked them up in Newark at Gallery Aferro, which they founded. In the series "Storefront Films," they've been screening films in the front of the gallery and other found spaces, and have run projectors off of car batteries. In theory the plan for the night would work, but we were ready for complications. Ideally, they would have hooked up to the cigarette lighter, but the Iron Maiden's is not fully functional from an inaugural New York break-in in 2007.

Evonne recruited an intern, Kylie, from work to help prepare the Iron Maiden for its screening debut. They ingeniously attached vellum below the rear window, and applied a magnetic strip along the top of the vellum so it could be taken down when in the car's in motion. Meanwhile, inside the gallery, Nancy Mahl, a curator, listened to the night's plans of running the projector off the Iron Maiden's battery, and offered her deep cycle battery from her boat. This would allow us to run the projector whether the car is in motion or not and avoid possible problems from the rain, while running it off the car battery would require the car to be parked.

Gallery closed, screen installed, costume donned, we followed Nancy to the marina and started telling stories about childhood experiences of Halloween and homemade costumes. Once at the marina, Evonne and Nancy took off for her boat and Emma made an Aferro sign for a side car window. It took a while for them to return. We later found out a drunken sailor puked his guts out in front of them to the delight of his cheering compatriots. As we headed for the city, Evonne and Emma were tired from a trying week, anxious about the starting rain, and wondering if this was going to work.

Traffic was surprisingly light, save for the black hole of SoHo, and we dashed across the Williamsburg Bridge to meet up with the curator of the films, Jill Wickenheisser. Parking at Bedford and 5th, Emma and I retrieved dinner while Evonne retrieved Jill. Excited to get it working, they set up the projector and battery and put in the first film, which fit neatly into the rear window. It worked! Amazed, we ate in the car. Pretty simultaneously, Evonne discovered the that her requested no-hot-sauce pita was filled with hot sauce, and the deep cycle battery failed. It began to rain harder.

Undeterred, Evonne attached the car battery to an inverter and an extension cord and got the projector running again, though the cord got surprisingly warm. Some costumed people noticed outside, and huddled under umbrellas to watch the stop-motion clay animation of two figures destroying each other within the safety of their home. We moved to the Bedford L stop at 7th, where Jill thought we would garner the most attention from the faithfully costumed. A man in a brightly decorated bicycle-powered vehicle blared Mexican music, circled back again and again. The rain picked up and few people paused to take in the spectacle in the rear window. Jill was a bit incensed.

Evonne and Emma had thought of going to various art institutions and nightclubs around the city, with the idea of competing with scheduled events, commando-style. While this idea had been revised, they still wanted to show up at random locations, counting on the elements of surprise and anonymity (i.e. not dependent on friends as audience members). We were making it up as we went along, and various needs and desires of the passengers and driver directed the itinerary. I had house guests who had arrived that day in New York, and I needed to get them keys to my apartment. Jill wanted to meet up with a friend and go to a party in Bushwick. Which we did, but dropped off the friend and Jill continued on with us. Emma found her favorite conceptual costume across from the party: a stroller was wrapped with yellow police tape and the child inside wore red; child as crime scene.

Somewhere along the way we ran into this gem of a vehicle.

The last I heard from my friends, they were at Katz's Delicatessen on Houston, so we headed to Manhattan. We parked behind a taco truck across the street from Katz's and began to explore the DVDs Jill had picked out. The trick was to find films that didn't depend on sound. One showed a woman applying lipstick that soon went beyond the boundaries of her mouth. Another was a pastoral story told through stop-motion photography. I got out to watch the scores of costumed pedestrians and take photos of the Iron Maiden. It's hard to remember all of the great costumes, but we saw a really great spider and a gaggle of stewardesses. A man dressed as a belly dancer began to lose his pants and spent the next 20 minutes near the car trying figure out how to wrap himself back up. There was so much to see, it was understandable that our act of renegade art-film screening by and large flew under the radar. But I loved that it was there all the same, that it was trying just as hard as everyone else to be noticed, that art was waving its flag amidst a sea of semaphore. It's either do that or not at all, and that's too sad to think about.

The taco truck truck provided superb tamales, and I encouraged Evonne to try the cheese, forgetting there were green chilies inside. Evonne is the gamest mild-paletted woman I've ever met. Despite her complete aversion to hot food, she made a great effort of alternating Sprite, bites of the tamale, and gasping. I'm not sure whose benefit it was for, but it was amusing, visceral, and guilt-inducing (I still feel badly about it). This woman just wants to eat dinner, why does it all have to be hot?

As it turned out, my friends arrived in Williamsburg at the same time we arrived next to Katz's. Determined, I drove us back to Brooklyn, and dropped off Jill, who was experiencing possibly rain-induced pain from a past injury. Emma, Evonne, and I were feeling a little wiped out, and met my friends at the Roebling Tea Room for beers. Cory was visiting from D.C. with her boyfriend, Robert, who was vistiing from LA. Another friend, Jason, was visiting from Boston. He was wearing a wig as his costume—a version of himself with hair.

Another agenda was a party I heard about from a co-worker, an annual Halloween party that had an invitation, a map, and explicit costume-only instructions. Cory and Robert retreated to my apartment, but Jason joined us on what we decided would be the last stop of the night . The party was at the top of a old loft building, and the apartment ran the length of the building like an attic. I wanted to bring some people downstairs to see the films, but this proved challenging. Even someone we knew walked away from our invitation. One of the hosts was part of an Andy Warhol duo, a Factory photo booth was set up, and I found my favorite costumed trio of the night, from "Heathers," complete with croquet mallets. As Jason and I marveled at the Atari-ed raptor, a woman told me she knew who I was. I couldn't believe it! I could go home happy. She was even more obscure than I—an interpretation of a Tarot card.

Back at the Iron Maiden, we watched a few more films to close out the night. One was of a very large boy holding on to and petting a bunny with increasingly hard strokes in slow motion. It was very uncomfortable to watch. Emma found a film with naked women from the internet and the very un-Halloween biker party across the street began to enthusiastically respond to it. As we drove away, we realized we had just gained an hour with the end of daylight saving time.

As part of my project duties, I drove Evonne and Emma home, which is in Inwood, and for the uninitiated, is at the very northwestern tip of Manhattan. Using a trick I learned from Outing #2, we took the Queensboro Bridge to FDR Drive, which turns into Harlem River Drive. I've never been that far up Harlem River Drive, under the grand bridges of the Cross Bronx Expressway and the High Bridge. The area reminds me of driving through Rock Creek Park in D.C. or through the one in Pittsburgh. My ideas of it being a testament to awe-inspiring civic engineering belies the reality that Highbridge Park has been in disrepair for decades, the footbridge closed since the '70s. But I still felt I was driving through some other era of New York.

Evonne and Emma unloaded their equipment and we said goodbye. I was really glad to have spent time with them—we had had brief interactions previously—and felt like I got a better sense of each through the night's slings and arrows, and the various in-depth conversations we had. A long night quickly over. I took Jason to his friend's house on the Upper West Side, then drove myself home. I woke up later that morning to drive myself and my house guests to a critique, and knew the Iron Maiden's future was uncertain. Maybe I'll wait until the spring.

Outing #4: All American Tailgate Party 2009 by Bandwagon (Chad Stayrook & José Ruiz)

Saturday, October 24th: “All American Tailgate Party 2009" is an all-access outing by the collective Bandwagon (Brooklyn artist Chad Stayrook and Queens artist/curator José Ruiz). Assembling a car caravan from Brooklyn to Queens and ending at the far, expansive edges of Jacob Riis Park parking lot (at one point the world’s largest), Bandwagon will crown The Iron Maiden as collective member while honoring America’s most infamous pre-partying ritual. This family-friendly event will include baked beans, the hottest buffalo wings east of the East River, a 3-car sculpture, a 2-channel car stereo piece, and a tent. 

Plans started to change a few days before the outing as the forecast for a full day of rain seemed unavoidable. As much as I adored the idea of spending time in a parking lot that was once the largest in the world (5,000 parking spaces! For perspective, contenders for the current largest parking lot in the world range from 13,000 to 20,000, depending on one's definition of lot/structure/complex, with a 40,000 parking city currently in development in DuBai. To digress further, Robert Moses designed the park in the '30s as a beach getaway for poor immigrants, as it was close enough to the city to be accessible by public transportation. Then why did he build the big parking lot?), Jacob Riis Park seemed an impractical destination for both exposure and distance's sake. The great brain storming of Bandwagon (advantage of a collective brain) relocated the tailgate to the expanse of parking that runs underneath the Wiliamsburg portion of the Brooklyn Queens Expressway (BQE). Due to preparations and general casualness, the exact location was kept up in the air until we arrived.

José and I caravaned our European station wagons (his a black Mercedes) from Bedford-Stuyvesant to the entrance off of Union Street and chose a spot opposite Hotel Le Jolie, an oddity that sprang up in the last few years (hotels in Brooklyn are odd to me), and an abandoned gas station. We were concerned about drawing attention to ourselves because of open containers, reappropriation of space, and no visible football stadium next door. We had a few curious glances from Hotel Le Jolie staffers on smoke breaks, and shared the space with skaters and car service lineups. At one point, a car did a very slow drive-by, then back-up, and there was a brief discussion with Chad. It turned out to be undercover police (Chad noted the firearms in full display), and they were satisfied when he mentioned "film shoot." His earlier explanation of "art project" seemed to produce confusion.

Once Chad and his lovely assistant Katarina arrived (Chad's is a grey Volkswagon wagon), we got to work arranging the wagons, erecting the tent, setting up the tailgating amenities, and decorating the cars. Chad made banners for the hood of each wagon, emblazoned with the colors of Bandwagon (black, red, and yellow), with the outlines of José and Chad in a triumphant pose for their hoods, and an outline of my zaftig figure cheering for the Iron Maiden (emblazoned across my torso in heavy-metal-band font) for mine. There was also a Bandwagon flag that flew above the white tent, as if a little fiefdom were being declared.

Tailgaters began to show up at this point and helped set up the collective-color-coordinated cups, napkins, and plates, start the grills, open the snacks, and distribute the drinks. Bandwagon offered Dark and Stormies (so clever) and Bandwagon Juice that gave the added kick of Red Bull (ughhh). Once things got going, it all sort of blends together for me. I remember people coming and going, that increasingly I talked a lot about whoknowswhat, and anytime a camera was produced I had the urge to stick out my tongue and pretend like I was at a death metal concert. In short, I was drunk for an extended period of time and had a lot of fun. I can't account for much of it. I know Linn and Brian came, of The Last Days of the Iron Maiden Outing #1 fame, and I met José's friends Irvin, Mary, and Maria, and my friends Andrea and Jed brought their two year old, Clyde, who's experiencing a weird virus in his foot and now has a baby cast, and Brian Balderston and his sister and cousin, with whom we met up later in the night, and Stephen Crone, who's writing a film, and Sonja Blesofsky, of the beautifully curly black hair, and Raquel Hecker of the Hecker/Hacker Clan, and the JCAL curator, Heng-Gil Han. I know Raquel and I danced when Bruce Springsteen came on Chad's stereo (because there's photographic proof of it). I must have eaten a Tofu Pup, because Katarina did (they don't call it Bandwagon for nothing), and at some point three kinds of cookies were available where there had been none minutes before. Chad and José played dueling car stereos throughout; José found a particularly curious/obnoxious bastion of sped-up cover music that had the effect not unlike The Chipmucks joining Ken Kesey's roadtrip.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'm only realizing now that the promised "mind-bending" on Bandwagon's original invitation really happened (also advertised as "free of charge"), which I'm attesting to from personal experience. Also part of their original invitation is this link to Wikipedia's entry on the "Bandwagon effect," a term coined by David Luder about the social phenomenon of doing things because other people are doing it, also termed "herd effect." While studied by behavioral psychologists, the realm of politics is where the phrase "jump on the bandwagon" was created, and it also plays a part in microeconomics. Usually it's used in a derogatory way, because of an absence of logic or individual thinking. But we're all subject to it, the social beings that we are. And I think Bandwagon, the artist collective, is using the name and concept to also look at the positive possibilities of bandwagonism.

Before I knew it, Chad began to talk to the assembled about the history of Bandwagon and its future events (in Holland doing this at the time of this writing), and that they are gathering steam as loosely defined interventionists, fringe-artists, and social platformers (here, YOU look at their artist statement). As part of this ceremony, they inducted both the Iron Maiden and me as honorary members of the Bandwagon Collective, and presented me with a t-shirt with the Bandwagon logo and a neat checkered hat that reminded me of José. The Iron Maiden was already decorated with her hood tapestry. I had to give a speech. Fuzzy photos were taken. It was still raining and now dark.

People started disappearing. The food and drink supplies were depleted. José had to rejoin his carless family in Queens. As we packed up, Chad variously ran around with and waved the Bandwagon flag on its huge PVC pole, I acted out songs from the stereo and showed my appreciation for the Iron Maiden, and Katarina took pictures and video.

 

Though the hedonism of the afternoon was over, we couldn't stop the overwhelming trend of the day. Union Pool was a skip away, where we found a taco truck out back and a photo booth inside. Sadly, I lost track of the strange quartet of photos of the three of us, one involving tongues. We pressed on to Pete's Candy Store, where a man insinuated himself into our conversation and caused a serious intra-relationship conversation between Katarina and Chad. I think I wandered back to the car and ate more cookies. Before long we were on our way to a late-night dance party in the edge of Bushwick, scouted out by Brian. The music was really good, mixing good seventies orchestral dance floor music with hip hop. Many people were on the floor, making a scene. I drifted into some meta-dance stance, then Chad and I mimed cleaning the dance floor and interacting with the speakers in primitive-influenced motions. In the past year when I've found myself inebriated on a dance floor, I've been subject to a hubristic and meglomaniacal attitude, like I'm Jafar in "Aladdin" when he gets power over the Genie. It's funny, and it scares me, and I'm slightly mortified the next day. Sufficiently tired, I left with Chad and Katarina before unsettling patterns could take over.

Though these later activities were not a planned part of the tailgate event, the day felt epic in its foregrounding of the audience as participant. Having been to a tailgate-and-football pairing a few weekends later, I'm now reminded of the collective experience of a crowd watching helmeted, padded men giving each other head trauma. It can be a very exciting and vicarious experience, but I was a physically inactive participant sitting on cold metal bleachers, wishing for a hot chocolate. This Bandwagon outing pointed out that my conversations, peregrinations, and internal pathologies were the event, as were every other participants' experiences. It was like we were walking around for twelve hours with stage lights framing our bodies. Man, that was fun.

Change of location for Outing #4, Saturday 24th

All are welcome to join me, the Iron Maiden, and Bandwagon for their "All American Tailgate Party 2009" on the fourth outing of the Last Days of the Iron Maiden. 

A caravan will be assembling around 12 noon in Red Hook or Bed Stuy (not clear yet); call 415-307-8943 day of for details. Because of rain, we'll be assembling by 1:30 under the BQE along Meeker, somewhere between Lorimer and Manhattan. Again, contact me for details. 

The link to the Facebook invite is here. I highly recommend checking this invite for special details about the event. Food and drink will be on, as well as flags, well-t-shirted participants, and a humdinger of a good time.

This is a very present-tense outing!

Outing #3: Rockaways, Russian Baths, and Red Hook by Richard Alwyn Fisher

Saturday, October 17th: “The Rockaways, Russian Baths, and Red Hook: The End of Long Island and The Iron Maiden” will be directed by Brooklyn songwriter/actor/musician Richard Alwyn Fisher. An autumnal journey through peripheral southern beaches of Queens and Brooklyn, Mr. Fisher’s itinerary includes O'Donohue Park, Breezy Point Park, and will end at the Red Hook hideaway Sunny’s in order to usher in Sunday. The outing will be recorded for a future podcast series by Mr. Fisher. 

Rain seems to be plaguing these October Saturdays, so we revised the schedule for a night version of this outer-reaches-of-southern-New-York-City crawl. Which had an unexpected, spectacular effect on the trip. And, at the end of a very cold, wet week, we inserted the Russian Bath for a much needed core-warming. 

The rain also made me seek repair of my windshield wipers with a new mechanic. While they weren't fixed by showtime, the garage figured out the tricky reason why they weren't working, and the owner explained everything to my satisfaction. Why are these simple qualities so difficult to find in a mechanic? I don't ask for much... alright, I'm a high-maintenance car client. But I don't believe my need for a clear explanation of what's going on should be a part of the bill. I guess if I am selling this car, working windshield wipers should be a standard amenity.

Given Richard's location in Carroll Gardens, I asked if we could indulge my curiosity in the Reanimation Library, which is located in the Proteus Gowanus complex. Nestled amongst other niche projects like the Fixer's Collective, "the Library reanimates books that have, for whatever reason, fallen out of use," to put it simply. I was too distracted to get into the books, and wandered over to another space that turned out to be Cabinet's event and exhibition space, whose walls were covered with scads of head shots and introductory letters in the exhibit "Hopeful" by David Levine. The gallery person was couldn't answer most of our questions, but I think we got him on a bad day.


Curiosity satisfied (for the moment), we set off for the most southeastern point of Queens, as far as you can go without calling it Nassau County or Long Island. Night was falling and Richard turned on his digital audio recorder. He's interested in having conversations, as opposed to more formal interviews, with artists, musicians, writers, and other "creative types,"

and making a podcast series from the results. He later reported the prominent presence of the Iron Maiden herself in the conversation, so I don't know if any jewels from that session will make it anywhere. 

Richard was well equipped with a walking map book (though no indication of one way streets) and directions on his phone device and proved to be an excellent navigator. A lot of this outing involved conversation, so I'd be distracted telling some story and Richard would assiduously point out turns. On the other hand, I had no clue where we were going most of the time, just a curious and willing driver, learning about the boroughs and Richard. 

We stopped on a dead-end street in Far Rockaway, and walked onto the beach at O'Donohue Park. Trying to orient me, Richard explained that though we were looking southward, the strip of land on the other side of Reynold's Channel was in fact Nassau County, its most southwestern reach. Everything felt strange, like I was in some small beach side town with weird high rises. Who lived here? But why do I live where I do? Even stranger, a think reed mat/walkway atop the sand extended towards the water, facilitating our walk to a certain point. We didn't linger long.

A nice thing about conversing with Richard is that I felt like he was listening (when he wasn't navigating), and subsequently I gave time-worn stories a fresh approach. We get used to telling stories from our lives in situation-appropriate sizes: the cocktail size (a witty sentence or two); the outing size (a fuller but streamlined version told when on an outing with friends and acquaintances), the car/plane trip size (the epic version intended to burn up minutes and hours, all details and digressions included and maximized). This was somewhere between the outing and the car trip version, and because Richard is a relatively new person to me and attentive, I was more conscious of the telling of the stories, a process of revealing to your tellee and to yourself. 

We headed westward, traversing the length of the long spit of southern Queens, through quiet wet streets alongside the LIRR, past Jacob Riis Park, Fort Tilden, and to the end of the road at Breezy Point Park. Signs forbade us from parking without a valid fishing permit (oh well), but we didn't seem to break any laws by walking down the quarter mile stretch to the beach. Again, it was a foreign place made even more foreign by the fact that we were a few miles from home. Light pollution and an overcast sky allowed us to see our way easily, feet plunging into sand, surrounded by scrub brush and mysterious barrack-like structures. It was so quiet and removed. By the time we got to the beach, I thought I was primed for the ocean, but was still blindsided by its overwhelming force and grace at night.


Richard and I have had two conversations prior to this project; we know each other through friends of friends of friends. His outing proposal appealed to me because it was based on conversation and exploration, and I liked the podcast element, that the outing would beget another project. Friends of mine pointed out that it sounded like a date. This amused me and added another point to its appeal. I knew this was not his intention, nor did I place my expectations as such, but the subtext of situations like this are unavoidable, especially when I find myself standing on a beach at night, a large city behind us, an indescribable scene in front, and I wanted to touch another human being, an affirmation this was real. I don't think I wouldn't be able to enjoy it alone, and I feel like I shared it with Richard. But there are different ways of sharing. Even when you're with someone you feel very close to, sometimes the experience doesn't go the way you imagine it might.


We didn't talk as much walking back, returned to the Iron Maiden, and she took us to Sea Gate, next to Coney Island, via the Marine Parkway Bridge and the Shore Parkway. At the end of Mermaid Avenue, we found the Mermaid Spa, a Russian bath and another place I've never been. I was completely unschooled on the etiquette and customs and spent most of my time observing or asking Richard questions. While I was observing, I was also sweating profusely. A sizable and varied crowd was assembled on a Saturday night: twenty-somethings, teenage girls, large overweight men; all were Russian. We switched from the dry heat of the sauna to a wet sauna where sturdy girls in bikinis poured cold water over themselves, then to an overpoweringly hot sauna that I mistakenly made hotter by pouring water over the stones. This necessitated plunges in the cold pool outside, something I hate, but hate less when I'm an overheated mess. Fortunately there was a restaurant in the open area where we retired. 


Over large plates of herring, crispy potatoes, beet salad, and steaming bowls of soup, we continued to talk about Richard's most recent and difficult year. He seems to be going through a mid-life crisis on all fronts and is desperately but tenaciously trying to hold on. From an observer's standpoint, it's amazing how depression strikes people differently; with some you can see it physically change their appearance while they're in it, while with others it's like a light flashing off and on. They're still able to laugh and carry on a semblance of normalcy for little periods, and then the conversation turns, their energy deflates, or you see it come over them. Of course there are degrees of it, and the person experiencing it has a completely different take. But with Richard it's not glaringly obvious. Then again, I've never known him otherwise.


Richard is able to talk about it freely, which was something that took me in upon meeting him, because I'm shamelessly curious. He's turned to therapy and yoga, but still sees an opaque future. He can't follow his passion for music in the manner he once did—it's a young person's world. How to reinvent yourself on the brink of 40? I place myself in his position and am bewildered—if not art, what then? I spent so many years dithering about, just getting here. But on the other hand, I've recently had thoughts that I've narrowed my focus to such a specific thing that I'm shutting out whole other worlds of myself that lie fallow and I've become quite boring. But maybe that's the whole idea behind "untapped potential," because it will never achieve fruition. It exists in that state and taunts us. 


The bath was another context in which to feel the first-dateness of the outing because we were talking in our swimsuits, thoroughly aware of our bodies because of the amount of water pouring out of them. In another way, I was glad to be reminded of my body; I've been tied to the computer doing artwork when not at money-generating-work, and deprioritizing exercise. I went for a run at the Y the next day, but that practice hasn't lasted this week. 

After another few sessions in now-emptier rooms, we set out for the Shore Parkway, our cores heated, stomachs full. The last destination was Sunny's Bar in Red Hook, a grand old dame of a place, accessible by car but little else. The Saturday Night Jam was in full swing in the back, and I think I caught sight of a guy I dated last November. Richard found a perfect corner at the bar (the only one), and Katarina and Chad came in soon afterwards for a few drinks. They had just finished the video they made at the Venice Biennale, where they put themselves on the map (literally). Conversations weaved in and out of art and acting and ducks as an appropriate bar decoration and how that duck made us all want to spend Christmas or New Year's Eve at Sunny's. I think we stacked hands and "go team!"'d on it. 

Katarina and Chad left and eventually our energy flagged as did the conversation. It was 2:30ish and time to go. I dropped Richard off in Carroll Gardens and drove home through the dank streets. It felt a little strange saying goodbye to him because there's no assured way we'll see each other again after an intense little outing. Which feels very New York to me, at least in my experience of it: there's no reason you'll meet up with someone again and there's no reason you won't meet up with him again.